Typewriter

The Christmas I was ten
my mother got me a typewriter.
This was at the dawn of the PC, mind you,
and this primitive thing occupied
the entirety of our La-Z-Boy.
It was a dull green—
the keys were round and flat,
characters large enough for the legally blind.

I found it at a yard sale, she said.
For your homework. It’s solid. Reliable.
Tough as nails.
My stocking, plucked from its flaccid
position over the fireplace, was nestled
neatly alongside this Smith-Corona Electric.
Limp, bloated, chock full of Mr. Goodbars,
it overflowed when I fondled it, anxious,

the contents cascading over inky reel,
clacking noisily from key to key.
Bing Crosby crooned, crisp and clear
in the CD player, and my mother
thumbed through records, struggled to connect
the turntable with this complicated little number,
a five-disc changer with dual cassette deck 
still coated in plastic, lights blinking,

numbers and icons flashing wildly—
Your father got us a goddamn slot machine.
Soon it’s out with the toolbox.
The rusty screwdriver with translucent handle,
jumble of cords and connectors.
She slaps the thing viciously
and finally submits, a handful of albums
sliding across the green shag.

Wires hung like dying vines
when she crumpled and folded,
the ragged seams of her nightgown
separating and yawning widely,
like a faithful old mutt lounging in the sun.
She held her head with the tips of her fingers,
gingerly, like a two thousand year old scroll.
Delicate, on the verge of disintegration.